Page 55 of Operator
The smile falls from my face. “Really, man? This already? What are we, a bunch of women? I swear you guys can be worse than a bunch of hens.”
Ford lifts a shoulder. “I figure maybe she’s more likely to be forgiving if she knows you’ll give her some later.”
I snort. “You’re so full of shit.”
He points a finger at me as he maneuvers the truck one-handed through thick, early morning fog. Not gonna lie, it feels a lot like old times and it’s hard to be mad at him when it feels so good to have him back. “Tell me I’m wrong. Peyton loves to be mad at me. Make up sex is always worth the screaming.”
Wincing, I say, “I don’t need to know that. And for the record—not that it’s any of your goddamned business—no, we haven’t slept together. I’m taking it slow. Are you satisfied?”
“Just making conversation, asshole.”
I drain the rest of my coffee. “Well, stop, it’s freaking me the fuck out.”
“Missed you, too,” Ford says with an uncharacteristic grin.
It almost feels like normal. Almost. The only thing missing is the rest of the team. But we’ll get them back. I feel it now more than ever. Whatever Ian knew, whatever the person who killed him is trying to hide…we’ll find out and we’ll make them pay.
That’s a promise I intend to keep.
“Any luck getting him on the phone?” Ford asks as we near William Frasier’s office.
“None. He’s either screening his calls or isn’t taking them anymore. Which one do you want to guess it is?”
“I guess we’re going to get to have a little fun.”
“You have a sick sense of what’s fun.”
“So do you.”
He’s not wrong. I haven’t felt this alive since…well, being with Gwen aside, since the last time Ford and I were breaking into a building. The night that Tate died.
I push the thought from my mind. Suddenly, I’ve got a bad feeling about this. Like there’s something I’m missing. Some piece of the puzzle I’m not seeing. I hate that feeling.
Palms damp, we skirt around the back of the small bungalow. Pretty sweet digs. Guess the military set him up pretty nice. Or maybe he did something to earn it. Something that also earned him blood on his hands.
“After this, want to help me intimidate one of Ian’s friends?”
“It’ll only piss Gwen off more.”
“Probably,” I answer.
After a pause, Ford says, “He’s the one whose wife was in an accident?”
“Yeah, that’s what Gwen says. I don’t really think he has anything to do with Ian’s death, but it doesn’t hurt to talk to him. Maybe we’ll take a trip to Florida if meeting with William doesn’t pan out.”
“I don’t think that’ll be necessary. I looked him up on social media. His wife’s been in a coma for a few weeks. He wouldn’t have had the time to break into Gwen’s house.”
“He could have hired someone.”
Ford looks doubtful. “Maybe.”
“But?” I prompt.
“But something like this feels more coordinated. Personal. If they knew some secret Ian was keeping, enough to kill him, they would have had to know things about him. Personal things.”
“Wouldn’t a friend know those things?”
“True. But your therapist would know them much better.”
